Wednesday, April 04, 2007
This just in: Chingy! still morbidly obese
So finally I have joined the 21st century and purchased a digital camera. Last night KatieScarlett took me to some shady camera store in Times Square and negotiated a sweet deal on this cute little camera that looks like an iPod, and which came with a protective rubber case in case one of the dogs decides to appropriate it for a chew toy. To celebrate the purchase and to prefunk for last night's premiere of "Deadliest Catch" (which was fucking AWESOME), we went to the Times Square Red Lobster.
I had never eaten at the Red Lobster in Times Square, partly because I hate Times Square, and partly because I only go to Red Lobsters when I'm not in New York City. There is practically one restaurant for every person in Manhattan, so what the hell is the point of going to a place I can find in Anytown, USA? Nonetheless, Red Lobster was jamming. Every tourist in NYC seems to invariably stick with what they know rather than venture out and try something new, so there were lines coming out of the Red Lobster, as well as the nearby Olive Garden, TGIFridays, Applebee's, and Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. It took us a while to squeeze into some seats at the bar, but once we did we were rewarded with an excellent view of the NCAA Women's basketball championship (which pleased KatieScarlett on account of the abundance of lesbians) interspersed with more "Deadliest Catch" commercials.
When I got home in time to crack open a cold one and watch "Deadliest Catch" (in which the hotness that is Sig Hansen pranked Blake the greenhorn captain of the Maverick who spent last season bitching about how he wasn't captain yet and who has a SERIOUS date rapist look about him by hiding a bag of rotten fish in the Maverick wheelhouse), I started playing with my camera. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of interesting shit in my apartment to photograph unless you're into empty Heineken bottles and Red Bull cans. Therefore, I took pictures of the dogs.
Caesar, as always, is as handsome as can be, even though I haven't quite figured out the flash on this new camera yet:
And for those of you inquiring as to Chingy!'s health, specifically whether or not he's lost any weight, the answer to that is an unequivocal NO:
On the bright side, I snagged some errant glucose test strips belonging to an immunology lab that shares our space in the mouse house to test Chingy!'s urine, and so far he is not diabetic. Any news that distracts me from the fact that every day he is more reminiscent of a beached whale is good news. CHONGAY CHONG!
And don't worry, I'll figure out how to take better pictures and how to work this camera in time for LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party tomorrow. Obviously, me getting together with ten drunken sluts in ho-ass shirts and sticking that mess in the middle of Scores with an open bar for three hours requires photo documentation. That's why I had to insist on getting this camera this week in the first place. So stand by...MillerTime arrives tonight and the insanity will begin, and I'll have better pics than my fat, sleeping Hutt of a dog to share with the world.
I had never eaten at the Red Lobster in Times Square, partly because I hate Times Square, and partly because I only go to Red Lobsters when I'm not in New York City. There is practically one restaurant for every person in Manhattan, so what the hell is the point of going to a place I can find in Anytown, USA? Nonetheless, Red Lobster was jamming. Every tourist in NYC seems to invariably stick with what they know rather than venture out and try something new, so there were lines coming out of the Red Lobster, as well as the nearby Olive Garden, TGIFridays, Applebee's, and Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. It took us a while to squeeze into some seats at the bar, but once we did we were rewarded with an excellent view of the NCAA Women's basketball championship (which pleased KatieScarlett on account of the abundance of lesbians) interspersed with more "Deadliest Catch" commercials.
When I got home in time to crack open a cold one and watch "Deadliest Catch" (in which the hotness that is Sig Hansen pranked Blake the greenhorn captain of the Maverick who spent last season bitching about how he wasn't captain yet and who has a SERIOUS date rapist look about him by hiding a bag of rotten fish in the Maverick wheelhouse), I started playing with my camera. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of interesting shit in my apartment to photograph unless you're into empty Heineken bottles and Red Bull cans. Therefore, I took pictures of the dogs.
Caesar, as always, is as handsome as can be, even though I haven't quite figured out the flash on this new camera yet:
And for those of you inquiring as to Chingy!'s health, specifically whether or not he's lost any weight, the answer to that is an unequivocal NO:
On the bright side, I snagged some errant glucose test strips belonging to an immunology lab that shares our space in the mouse house to test Chingy!'s urine, and so far he is not diabetic. Any news that distracts me from the fact that every day he is more reminiscent of a beached whale is good news. CHONGAY CHONG!
And don't worry, I'll figure out how to take better pictures and how to work this camera in time for LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party tomorrow. Obviously, me getting together with ten drunken sluts in ho-ass shirts and sticking that mess in the middle of Scores with an open bar for three hours requires photo documentation. That's why I had to insist on getting this camera this week in the first place. So stand by...MillerTime arrives tonight and the insanity will begin, and I'll have better pics than my fat, sleeping Hutt of a dog to share with the world.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, I LOVE IT
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Jake Taylor has really let himself go
Last night, I arrived home to see several gigantic trailers and production trucks pulling up to the sidewalk outside my house. I got all excited, thinking they might be filming more episodes of "Law and Order:SVU" there and I could get a glimpse of Tracy "Ice-T" Marrow, his buxom ho-bag of a wife CoCo, or the hotness that is Mariska Hargitay running around my hood. However, I couldn't discern from the "No Parking By Order of the Mayor's Office of Film and TV Production" signs what they were filming, so I basically forgot about it.
This morning, I was reminded when I ventured out to the park with the dogs, but I still couldn't figure out what was going to be filmed, and the production assistants were all running around, wearing headsets, and looking very busy with VERY important stuff like plugging in big cables and unloading equipment, so I didn't ask them. It's a good thing I didn't, because they turned out to be assholes.
Tonight, I arrived home to see lots of activity around the trailers, and one PA was eyeing me beadily as I approached. She looked as though she were ready to tackle me if I made so much as a step toward the trailer directly in front of my building's door. I must have looked sketchy, on account of having a horrible headache. I spent the afternoon doing organic chemistry (which I suck at; in college I got a C in it, and the only thing I was ever good at was distilling alcohol...go figure), and even worse, I was using ether. I don't know why Hunter S. Thompson was into huffing that shit, because the only thing it did for me was provide me with a splitting headache. Then again, I did have it in the fume hood, so maybe I didn't experience the full effects, but have a general policy of not getting high off organic solvents, especially those that are notorious for volatility and explosions. Anyway, I must have looked angry or sketchy or stalkerish, so she eyed me warily until I was safely inside my building. I figured there must be some big celebrity in that trailer to warrant such a vigilant PA guarding it.
I came back out with the dogs five minutes later, only to see that the big Hollywood movie star had emerged and was standing in front of my building. It was not Brad Pitt, or Halle Berry, or Jack Nicholson, or even Justin Timberlake. At first I thought the star, surrounded by an entourage, was James Gandolfini wearing a curly wig, based on his hulking girth and man-boobs (visible even beneath a black shirt AND jacket), but as he turned to face the camera, I realized that it was a much, much fatter version of this guy:
Yes! Tom Berenger, the actor who immortalized Cleveland Indians catcher Jake Taylor in one of the greatest movies ever made, Major League. In case you haven't seen this film, it's a silly but sublime movie with an awesomely 80s cast (also including Charlie Sheen as volatile ex-con pitcher Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn, Corbin Bernsen--who thanks to "L.A. Law" was unbelievably a stud of the era--as wealthy, womanizing shortstop Roger Dorn, Wesley Snipes as wisecracking, base-stealing outfielder Willie Mays Hayes, Bob Uecker as the drunken commentator, and Rene Russo as Jake Taylor's librarian ex-girlfriend.) There's also a cast of awesome supporting characters, including the super cunty team owner's trophy widow, the curmudgeonly old coach, an aging born-again pitcher (who sucks), the Tribe's dedicated fans in all their Indian gear, and the Dominican-Haitian-Mexican designated hitter Pedro Cerrano, who speaks Spanish, practices voodoo, and at one point tells the born-again "chingate, cabron." (Obviously the writers suffered from the surprisingly common confusion that drives J-Sexy crazy, that all the nations of the Caribbean are on one big island and share one big blurred culture.) Major League was a favorite in the Razzy household growing up, so I recognized Jake Taylor's ass IMMEDIATELY, in spite of the fact that he's blown up like Lil' Kim.
His entourage started hurrying him across the street to the Harlem School for the Arts, where they were shooting the movie Order of Redemption, in which Tom Berenger plays a former stud of a criminal defense attorney who becomes a hard-core drug addict. Busta Rhymes is also in this, but I didn't see him. He's probably hanging out with a real-life criminal defense attorney since the people of the City of New York are taking his non-snitching ass to trial on assault charges in May. Caesar wasn't paying attention to any of this. He was more interested in pissing on his usual fire hydrant.
The beady-eyed PA guarding the trailer hurried over and gave me a very admonishing look. "Excuse me," she said. "He needs to do that somewhere else." I looked at her incredulously. Apart from providing water for firefighters and acting as impromptu sprinklers for kids on particularly sweltering summer days, the one other thing fire hydrants are famous for is DOGS PISSING ON THEM. Furthermore, who does this bitch think she is that she can issue such imperative commands to me in front of my own fucking apartment building? At least say "please" and phrase that request in the form of a question, you self-important slut!
"He's a dog. It's a fire hydrant," I said coldly to her. "And it's a public street." She gave me a very offended look. Apparently Tom Berenger is such a big fucking star that he warrants peons stationed outside to prevent dogs from pissing in his trailer's vicinity. I was irritated. As far as I could tell, Mayor Bloomberg gave them the right to park their giant trucks and trailers on the street, not dictate where my dog can or can't urinate, and I resented this dumb snatch telling me otherwise. I thought the best solution was to rattle her by showing how very little I cared for her mandate to fetch coffee and shoo dogs away from Tom Berenger's trailer by addressing the celebrity directly.
"Hey Jake! Where's Willie Mays Hayes?!" I shouted. I know exactly where Willie Mays Hayes is (in federal court answering to charges of tax evasion to the tune of $12 million dollars and probably gearing up to star in Blade 4), but it was the only pithy thing I could think to shout to a man who once called his shot like the Babe and then shocked the (evil) Yankees by bunting, thus securing a pennant for the Tribe.
If Tom Berenger heard me, he didn't respond. He probably didn't, because he was fully across St. Nicholas Ave. at that point, and it was clogged with traffic. In any event, he didn't respond, but the look of horror on the PA's face was priceless. She failed at preventing the local riff-raff from bugging the big MOVIE STAR, and was probably worried about her bullshit job. I felt totally vindicated. Welcome to Sugar Hill, bitch.
On a separate but related topic, if you look up Major League on IMDB.com, the listed plot keywords "include "Voodoo", "Wife's Sexual Pretence", "Vulgarity", "Rum", "Bad Haircut", "Mullet Haircut", "Obscene Finger Gesture", "Sombrero", "Watermelon", and "Urination Scene." What, no "Joe Boo" or "Corbin Bernsen taking one in the nuts?" I wouldn't have noticed this, but you have no idea how difficult it is to find pictures of Tom Berenger on the internets in anything except Platoon. I've literally spent two hours RESEARCHING this blog entry and snagging Major League screen captures off YouTube. Uff da.
This morning, I was reminded when I ventured out to the park with the dogs, but I still couldn't figure out what was going to be filmed, and the production assistants were all running around, wearing headsets, and looking very busy with VERY important stuff like plugging in big cables and unloading equipment, so I didn't ask them. It's a good thing I didn't, because they turned out to be assholes.
Tonight, I arrived home to see lots of activity around the trailers, and one PA was eyeing me beadily as I approached. She looked as though she were ready to tackle me if I made so much as a step toward the trailer directly in front of my building's door. I must have looked sketchy, on account of having a horrible headache. I spent the afternoon doing organic chemistry (which I suck at; in college I got a C in it, and the only thing I was ever good at was distilling alcohol...go figure), and even worse, I was using ether. I don't know why Hunter S. Thompson was into huffing that shit, because the only thing it did for me was provide me with a splitting headache. Then again, I did have it in the fume hood, so maybe I didn't experience the full effects, but have a general policy of not getting high off organic solvents, especially those that are notorious for volatility and explosions. Anyway, I must have looked angry or sketchy or stalkerish, so she eyed me warily until I was safely inside my building. I figured there must be some big celebrity in that trailer to warrant such a vigilant PA guarding it.
I came back out with the dogs five minutes later, only to see that the big Hollywood movie star had emerged and was standing in front of my building. It was not Brad Pitt, or Halle Berry, or Jack Nicholson, or even Justin Timberlake. At first I thought the star, surrounded by an entourage, was James Gandolfini wearing a curly wig, based on his hulking girth and man-boobs (visible even beneath a black shirt AND jacket), but as he turned to face the camera, I realized that it was a much, much fatter version of this guy:
His entourage started hurrying him across the street to the Harlem School for the Arts, where they were shooting the movie Order of Redemption, in which Tom Berenger plays a former stud of a criminal defense attorney who becomes a hard-core drug addict. Busta Rhymes is also in this, but I didn't see him. He's probably hanging out with a real-life criminal defense attorney since the people of the City of New York are taking his non-snitching ass to trial on assault charges in May. Caesar wasn't paying attention to any of this. He was more interested in pissing on his usual fire hydrant.
The beady-eyed PA guarding the trailer hurried over and gave me a very admonishing look. "Excuse me," she said. "He needs to do that somewhere else." I looked at her incredulously. Apart from providing water for firefighters and acting as impromptu sprinklers for kids on particularly sweltering summer days, the one other thing fire hydrants are famous for is DOGS PISSING ON THEM. Furthermore, who does this bitch think she is that she can issue such imperative commands to me in front of my own fucking apartment building? At least say "please" and phrase that request in the form of a question, you self-important slut!
"He's a dog. It's a fire hydrant," I said coldly to her. "And it's a public street." She gave me a very offended look. Apparently Tom Berenger is such a big fucking star that he warrants peons stationed outside to prevent dogs from pissing in his trailer's vicinity. I was irritated. As far as I could tell, Mayor Bloomberg gave them the right to park their giant trucks and trailers on the street, not dictate where my dog can or can't urinate, and I resented this dumb snatch telling me otherwise. I thought the best solution was to rattle her by showing how very little I cared for her mandate to fetch coffee and shoo dogs away from Tom Berenger's trailer by addressing the celebrity directly.
"Hey Jake! Where's Willie Mays Hayes?!" I shouted. I know exactly where Willie Mays Hayes is (in federal court answering to charges of tax evasion to the tune of $12 million dollars and probably gearing up to star in Blade 4), but it was the only pithy thing I could think to shout to a man who once called his shot like the Babe and then shocked the (evil) Yankees by bunting, thus securing a pennant for the Tribe.
If Tom Berenger heard me, he didn't respond. He probably didn't, because he was fully across St. Nicholas Ave. at that point, and it was clogged with traffic. In any event, he didn't respond, but the look of horror on the PA's face was priceless. She failed at preventing the local riff-raff from bugging the big MOVIE STAR, and was probably worried about her bullshit job. I felt totally vindicated. Welcome to Sugar Hill, bitch.
On a separate but related topic, if you look up Major League on IMDB.com, the listed plot keywords "include "Voodoo", "Wife's Sexual Pretence", "Vulgarity", "Rum", "Bad Haircut", "Mullet Haircut", "Obscene Finger Gesture", "Sombrero", "Watermelon", and "Urination Scene." What, no "Joe Boo" or "Corbin Bernsen taking one in the nuts?" I wouldn't have noticed this, but you have no idea how difficult it is to find pictures of Tom Berenger on the internets in anything except Platoon. I've literally spent two hours RESEARCHING this blog entry and snagging Major League screen captures off YouTube. Uff da.
Labels: assholes, Caese Doggy Dogg, celebrities, doggity style, fat fucks, Harlem world, intentional buffoonery, movies, NYC, scathing indictments, vengeance is sweet
Monday, March 19, 2007
What's wrong with this picture?
While I was digging through my doggy photos to find choice face shots of Chingy! to make the Chingy! the Hutt photo spread, I came across this one. This was taken a couple years ago for the purposes of being a Christmas card, and I had selected it and gotten it all ready to send until I realized that there was something very wrong with it. Can you spot it? And no, it's not the fucking zit on my forehead that looks like Krakatoa erupting...my Photoshop skills are pretty piss poor but they're good enough to have covered that up. I'll give you a hint: it has to do with one of the dogs.
There was an old "Seinfeld" episode where Elaine sent out a Christmas card, only to realize later that her nipple was showing on it. That would be embarrassing, but not nearly as bad as sending all your friends and loved ones seasons greetings in the form of a disgusting dog erection.
Caesar, put away your lipstick! GROSS!
There was an old "Seinfeld" episode where Elaine sent out a Christmas card, only to realize later that her nipple was showing on it. That would be embarrassing, but not nearly as bad as sending all your friends and loved ones seasons greetings in the form of a disgusting dog erection.
Caesar, put away your lipstick! GROSS!
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, oh the horror
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Et tu, Caesar?
Ever since that fat little puglet Chingy! moved into my home three years ago, he has, against my every effort, taught Caesar some of his bad habits. For example, his tendency to kick dirt everywhere after he shits and/or pisses. This is annoying when Chingy! does it, because he tends to get dirt all over my shoes and ankles, and because he always does it with this insufferably superior look on his wrinkly, squashy little face, but at least Chingy! is small enough that he doesn't manage to do much damage. Caesar, who has now decided this would be a useful part of his bathroom ritual, is so large that he manages to kick up so much dirt I feel as though I'm stuck in a Sahara desert sandstorm. Invariably he digs a furrow so large that you could wage trench warfare in St. Nicholas Park in it, if you so desired.
Since Caesar is my favorite, I always blame Chingy! for spreading his evil mannerisms like a disease. I would shout at him if it would do any good, but usually Chingy! is stupid enough to be standing behind Caesar when he begins excavating his post-excretory ditch, and he ends up so covered in dirt that all I can see of him is his little pink tongue poking out of his snaggly little mouth. I can't imagine that shouting at Chingy! for teaching Caesar this trick in the first place would accomplish a damn thing. Instead I just silently curse Chingy! for being a bad influence, because Caesar never pulled this kind of crap until Chingy! waddled insolently into our lives.
Today I realized to my absolute horror that Chingy! has taught Caesar something else that is far worse. Chingy!'s taste for usually revolting shit is well-documented. Chingy! has been caught guiltily scarfing down everything from acorns to mud to cat shit to decomposing squirrel remains to homeless guy diarrhea. I always thought that the handsome, noble Caesar, a dog so intelligent he figured out how to open doors, would be above such things. I thought wrong.
Granted, Caesar has always had a penchant for finding and eating what I call "street food." If there is a chicken bone on the street, Caesar will go into stealth mode, pretend to be innocently sniffing a fire hydrant or other prospective piss target, and the next thing I know, he'll be crunching up the offending discarded bone. I understand that dogs like bones, and I've always attributed Caesar's annoying covert street bone-acquiring to his above-average dog intellect and his insatiable love for people food. I NEVER for one second anticipated he'd devolve into Chingy!-esque cacophagy.
Today, as usual, I released Caesar from the fetters of his leash when we strolled into the park. I usually do this, because off-leash dogs, while technically against the law, are nonetheless customary within the confines of the park so long as the dog is friendly, which goofy, tongue-hanging-out Caese obviously is. Since Caesar is huge, and totally obsessed with the prospect of our usual morning stick-chasing session, I let him off the leash because he pulls on it too much and it annoys me. So he gets to burn off his extra energy by doing exuberant laps of the park perennial shrub garden while Chingy! and I continue up the park stairs to our usual stick-chasing venue at a pace befitting Chingy!'s morbid obesity. This morning, however, Caesar finished running his laps and ran to a landing on the stairs slightly above where Chingy! and I had yet ascended. I noticed him dip his head in what I identified as a classic Caesar covert food-acquiring move. However, much to my horror, it was not food he was acquiring, at least not in the not-into-scat-play circles that I run in.
Caesar brought up his magnificent head, and I saw that he was chomping on a HUGE turd. It was about the size and shape of a grown man's colon, which I suspect was its origin.
"CAESAR! DROP IT! NO! NO! NO!" I shouted. "Bad Caesar! BAD!"
To his credit, Caesar dropped it immediately as I ran up. Also to his credit, Caesar did not try to lick me upon arrival, unlike how Chingy! responded when he was caught in a similar situation. However, upon a closer visual examination of what Caesar was eating, it was most DEFINITELY human feces. Furthermore, Caesar had consumed about half of what was originally there by my rough estimation.
I am aware that all sorts of unsavory shit occurs in St. Nicholas Park under the cover of darkness. I see all kinds of used condoms and empty single-use lube packets littering the walkways there in the harsh light of morning when I walk the boys, and I am always wondering exactly what type of seedy vagrant sex scene occurs there after nightfall. One time I found a full set of clothing on the grassy knoll where I take the dogs, including socks and underwear, laid out neatly the way my mom used to put out my school uniform on my bed when I was a little kid. I am also aware that most of this is probably perpetrated by homeless people and/or drug addicts, given the accompanying empty bottles of King Cobra and occasional dirty syringe-needle set, and my own reasonable suspicions as to who actually has secretive sex in New York City parks at night. However, this clandestine lifestyle is so accepted that the folks who populate the park after hours are actually SHITTING ON THE MAIN PARK STAIRS. If it were just me strolling through the park, I'd merely frown disapprovingly and avoid stepping in it, but it's another matter when apparently both my dogs find this not revolting, but tremendously appetizing. Fuck you, park shitters.
And fuck you, Chingy!, for teaching Caesar your disgusting tricks! Caesar is supposed to be the good one!
Since Caesar is my favorite, I always blame Chingy! for spreading his evil mannerisms like a disease. I would shout at him if it would do any good, but usually Chingy! is stupid enough to be standing behind Caesar when he begins excavating his post-excretory ditch, and he ends up so covered in dirt that all I can see of him is his little pink tongue poking out of his snaggly little mouth. I can't imagine that shouting at Chingy! for teaching Caesar this trick in the first place would accomplish a damn thing. Instead I just silently curse Chingy! for being a bad influence, because Caesar never pulled this kind of crap until Chingy! waddled insolently into our lives.
Today I realized to my absolute horror that Chingy! has taught Caesar something else that is far worse. Chingy!'s taste for usually revolting shit is well-documented. Chingy! has been caught guiltily scarfing down everything from acorns to mud to cat shit to decomposing squirrel remains to homeless guy diarrhea. I always thought that the handsome, noble Caesar, a dog so intelligent he figured out how to open doors, would be above such things. I thought wrong.
Granted, Caesar has always had a penchant for finding and eating what I call "street food." If there is a chicken bone on the street, Caesar will go into stealth mode, pretend to be innocently sniffing a fire hydrant or other prospective piss target, and the next thing I know, he'll be crunching up the offending discarded bone. I understand that dogs like bones, and I've always attributed Caesar's annoying covert street bone-acquiring to his above-average dog intellect and his insatiable love for people food. I NEVER for one second anticipated he'd devolve into Chingy!-esque cacophagy.
Today, as usual, I released Caesar from the fetters of his leash when we strolled into the park. I usually do this, because off-leash dogs, while technically against the law, are nonetheless customary within the confines of the park so long as the dog is friendly, which goofy, tongue-hanging-out Caese obviously is. Since Caesar is huge, and totally obsessed with the prospect of our usual morning stick-chasing session, I let him off the leash because he pulls on it too much and it annoys me. So he gets to burn off his extra energy by doing exuberant laps of the park perennial shrub garden while Chingy! and I continue up the park stairs to our usual stick-chasing venue at a pace befitting Chingy!'s morbid obesity. This morning, however, Caesar finished running his laps and ran to a landing on the stairs slightly above where Chingy! and I had yet ascended. I noticed him dip his head in what I identified as a classic Caesar covert food-acquiring move. However, much to my horror, it was not food he was acquiring, at least not in the not-into-scat-play circles that I run in.
Caesar brought up his magnificent head, and I saw that he was chomping on a HUGE turd. It was about the size and shape of a grown man's colon, which I suspect was its origin.
"CAESAR! DROP IT! NO! NO! NO!" I shouted. "Bad Caesar! BAD!"
To his credit, Caesar dropped it immediately as I ran up. Also to his credit, Caesar did not try to lick me upon arrival, unlike how Chingy! responded when he was caught in a similar situation. However, upon a closer visual examination of what Caesar was eating, it was most DEFINITELY human feces. Furthermore, Caesar had consumed about half of what was originally there by my rough estimation.
I am aware that all sorts of unsavory shit occurs in St. Nicholas Park under the cover of darkness. I see all kinds of used condoms and empty single-use lube packets littering the walkways there in the harsh light of morning when I walk the boys, and I am always wondering exactly what type of seedy vagrant sex scene occurs there after nightfall. One time I found a full set of clothing on the grassy knoll where I take the dogs, including socks and underwear, laid out neatly the way my mom used to put out my school uniform on my bed when I was a little kid. I am also aware that most of this is probably perpetrated by homeless people and/or drug addicts, given the accompanying empty bottles of King Cobra and occasional dirty syringe-needle set, and my own reasonable suspicions as to who actually has secretive sex in New York City parks at night. However, this clandestine lifestyle is so accepted that the folks who populate the park after hours are actually SHITTING ON THE MAIN PARK STAIRS. If it were just me strolling through the park, I'd merely frown disapprovingly and avoid stepping in it, but it's another matter when apparently both my dogs find this not revolting, but tremendously appetizing. Fuck you, park shitters.
And fuck you, Chingy!, for teaching Caesar your disgusting tricks! Caesar is supposed to be the good one!
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, NYC
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Hail, Caesar! Happy birthday.
Today is a momentous occasion. My sweet biological dog Caesar turns FIVE today. I can barely believe that much time has passed since I first acquired him.
In fall 2001, my roommate Miss Corbutt worked for this bar in Tacoma called Jazzbones. The owner owned a German Shepherd named Katie who had just given birth to eleven puppies, so he wanted to know if I would like one. My family has always had dogs, and I missed not having a creature of the canine persuasion around my house, so I immediately agreed. Besides, I'd never had a puppy, so I thought that would be fun.
In early November, the puppies turned five weeks old, which is the age where they are first BARELY weaned. Most experts say that it is not wise to separate the pups from the bitch who whelped them until 8 weeks, but Jason, Katie's owner, was desperate to reduce the doggification of his home. I could understand why as soon as I walked in the door. The place smelled like a urine bomb had exploded in there. I'm pretty sure he had to redo the floors after five weeks of eleven puppies (and their mother) shitting and pissing everywhere.
Anyway, I told Jason that I wanted a boy, because I've always had male dogs, and my household had enough bitches in it already with me and Miss Corbutt residing there. So Jason, in preparation for my arrival, separated out the three males in the litter.
"This one's my favorite of the boys," he said, handing me a little black fluffball. I held the puppy, and he was very cute, but he was all black without any interesting markings, and he didn't seem to have any interest in me whatsoever.
Just then, I felt a gentle tugging at the hem of my jeans and looked down into the baby blue eyes of a fuzzy guy who was black with huge brown paws pulling on my pant legs insistently, as if to get my attention. Once I looked at him, he stopped tugging, and wagged his little puppy tail happily.
I handed Jason back his favorite, and said, "I think this one down here chose me." I picked him up, and he immediately licked my face and bit my nose. "I'll take him. Jason, meet Caesar." I had already intended to name this dog Caesar, because I love me some Roman Imperialism.
On the five minute drive back to my house, Caesar sat on my lap and WHINED AND CRIED like the world was ending. It was heartbreaking. Then he threw up all over me, which was disgusting. I spent the day trying to cheer Caesar up with treats, food, toys, etc. He wouldn't eat, wouldn't play, and wouldn't stop crying. The next day, he still wouldn't eat, and I tried wet dog food (for which he indicated his disdain by walking through his food bowl and leaving gross offal footprints all over my kitchen), Miss Corbutt tried to give him brown rice (which he wisely ignored altogether), and I was starting to get worried. Maybe he wasn't fully weaned yet, or maybe the psychological trauma of being separated from his mother and siblings so early was tremendous and causing anorexia. I didn't know what to do, so I decided to feed myself and hope that some inspiration would come to me once I had a full stomach. I heated up a leftover piece of pizza from the Clover Leaf Tavern, my favorite pizza place in T-town. Their pizza is its own special, sublime blend of incredibly salty and overwhelmingly greasy. In other words, it's the best pizza ever. It is so fucking good that I suspect that their secret ingredient is crack.
I was about to eat my slice of pepperoni and black olive when I noticed Caesar sniffing it curiously. I plucked off an olive and held it up for him to smell. After a couple tentative whiffs, he gobbled it up. I was so overjoyed that he was eating, I forgot about the pizza being my lunch, or my resolve not to get Caesar hooked on people food. I offered him a piece of pepperoni, which he scarfed down, and then tore off a piece of pizza with cheese, olive, sauce, crust, and pepperoni. He loved that, too. Caesar started eating and stopped whining after that, although he was incorrigible whenever I ordered pizza from the Clover Leaf. "It's like mother's milk to him," Miss Corbutt observed months later when a much-larger Caesar was stalking me for my pizza. His deep love for the Clover Leaf's fine victuals are what prompted me to start calling him "Pizza", a nickname that he answers to as readily as "Caesar."
During his puppyhood, Caesar did a lot of undesirable things, like eating approximately $1500 worth of me and Miss Corbutt's shoes, eating one of her cameras, eating every remote control in the house, shitting and pissing EVERYWHERE, jumping on visitors, nipping my ass constantly while I walked around the house once his herding instincts kicked in, learning to open doors with his nose, and most embarrassingly, breaking into my room once right when I'd finished fucking the R-uh and trying to lick his dick. I don't know if I'll ever get a puppy again because of his ridiculous antics and how agonizing they were to deal with. However, he was one hell of a cute puppy. He had blue eyes, these little needle teeth, and his breath smelled like cafe au lait. He weighed 5 pounds, his fur was like velvet, and he was the size of a football. See for yourself:
Caesar on a seek-and-destroy-Razzy-and-Miss Corbutt's-property mission:
Caesar could be an intimidating puppy:
As a puppy, Caesar's second favorite food next to Clover Leaf pepperoni and black olive pizza was teddy bears:
He also had a taste for furniture:
And a penchant for viciously barking at stuffed chew toys:
Well, Caesar is all grown up now. He grew to match those giant puppy paws of his and now weighs 110 pounds, has a much more manly-sounding bark, and his blue eyes have turned the most gorgeous shade of brown. Here's a couple pictures of Caesar illustrating what he looks like now. I left the image of LL Cool Jew trying to hug me/put me into a sleeper hold to give you some perspective concerning Caesar's massive size:
And I cropped most of myself out of this picture because it's the worst image of me ever captured on film. However, I left my scrub-clad ass in it again for scale, to show that Caesar comes up to my waist. He is a big fucking boy:
And a really good boy. In fact, he's the best dog in the world, and I'm so lucky that he chose me as his human. Happy birthday, Pizza Pony! Just for him, I'm going to stop at the slice shop next to the football bar I go to and get Caese a big slice of pepperoni and black olive 'zza. It's not the Clover Leaf, but I'm sure it will be a welcomed birthday gift nonetheless. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for a brisk game of birthday stick-chasing in the park.
In fall 2001, my roommate Miss Corbutt worked for this bar in Tacoma called Jazzbones. The owner owned a German Shepherd named Katie who had just given birth to eleven puppies, so he wanted to know if I would like one. My family has always had dogs, and I missed not having a creature of the canine persuasion around my house, so I immediately agreed. Besides, I'd never had a puppy, so I thought that would be fun.
In early November, the puppies turned five weeks old, which is the age where they are first BARELY weaned. Most experts say that it is not wise to separate the pups from the bitch who whelped them until 8 weeks, but Jason, Katie's owner, was desperate to reduce the doggification of his home. I could understand why as soon as I walked in the door. The place smelled like a urine bomb had exploded in there. I'm pretty sure he had to redo the floors after five weeks of eleven puppies (and their mother) shitting and pissing everywhere.
Anyway, I told Jason that I wanted a boy, because I've always had male dogs, and my household had enough bitches in it already with me and Miss Corbutt residing there. So Jason, in preparation for my arrival, separated out the three males in the litter.
"This one's my favorite of the boys," he said, handing me a little black fluffball. I held the puppy, and he was very cute, but he was all black without any interesting markings, and he didn't seem to have any interest in me whatsoever.
Just then, I felt a gentle tugging at the hem of my jeans and looked down into the baby blue eyes of a fuzzy guy who was black with huge brown paws pulling on my pant legs insistently, as if to get my attention. Once I looked at him, he stopped tugging, and wagged his little puppy tail happily.
I handed Jason back his favorite, and said, "I think this one down here chose me." I picked him up, and he immediately licked my face and bit my nose. "I'll take him. Jason, meet Caesar." I had already intended to name this dog Caesar, because I love me some Roman Imperialism.
On the five minute drive back to my house, Caesar sat on my lap and WHINED AND CRIED like the world was ending. It was heartbreaking. Then he threw up all over me, which was disgusting. I spent the day trying to cheer Caesar up with treats, food, toys, etc. He wouldn't eat, wouldn't play, and wouldn't stop crying. The next day, he still wouldn't eat, and I tried wet dog food (for which he indicated his disdain by walking through his food bowl and leaving gross offal footprints all over my kitchen), Miss Corbutt tried to give him brown rice (which he wisely ignored altogether), and I was starting to get worried. Maybe he wasn't fully weaned yet, or maybe the psychological trauma of being separated from his mother and siblings so early was tremendous and causing anorexia. I didn't know what to do, so I decided to feed myself and hope that some inspiration would come to me once I had a full stomach. I heated up a leftover piece of pizza from the Clover Leaf Tavern, my favorite pizza place in T-town. Their pizza is its own special, sublime blend of incredibly salty and overwhelmingly greasy. In other words, it's the best pizza ever. It is so fucking good that I suspect that their secret ingredient is crack.
I was about to eat my slice of pepperoni and black olive when I noticed Caesar sniffing it curiously. I plucked off an olive and held it up for him to smell. After a couple tentative whiffs, he gobbled it up. I was so overjoyed that he was eating, I forgot about the pizza being my lunch, or my resolve not to get Caesar hooked on people food. I offered him a piece of pepperoni, which he scarfed down, and then tore off a piece of pizza with cheese, olive, sauce, crust, and pepperoni. He loved that, too. Caesar started eating and stopped whining after that, although he was incorrigible whenever I ordered pizza from the Clover Leaf. "It's like mother's milk to him," Miss Corbutt observed months later when a much-larger Caesar was stalking me for my pizza. His deep love for the Clover Leaf's fine victuals are what prompted me to start calling him "Pizza", a nickname that he answers to as readily as "Caesar."
During his puppyhood, Caesar did a lot of undesirable things, like eating approximately $1500 worth of me and Miss Corbutt's shoes, eating one of her cameras, eating every remote control in the house, shitting and pissing EVERYWHERE, jumping on visitors, nipping my ass constantly while I walked around the house once his herding instincts kicked in, learning to open doors with his nose, and most embarrassingly, breaking into my room once right when I'd finished fucking the R-uh and trying to lick his dick. I don't know if I'll ever get a puppy again because of his ridiculous antics and how agonizing they were to deal with. However, he was one hell of a cute puppy. He had blue eyes, these little needle teeth, and his breath smelled like cafe au lait. He weighed 5 pounds, his fur was like velvet, and he was the size of a football. See for yourself:
Caesar on a seek-and-destroy-Razzy-and-Miss Corbutt's-property mission:
Caesar could be an intimidating puppy:
As a puppy, Caesar's second favorite food next to Clover Leaf pepperoni and black olive pizza was teddy bears:
He also had a taste for furniture:
And a penchant for viciously barking at stuffed chew toys:
Well, Caesar is all grown up now. He grew to match those giant puppy paws of his and now weighs 110 pounds, has a much more manly-sounding bark, and his blue eyes have turned the most gorgeous shade of brown. Here's a couple pictures of Caesar illustrating what he looks like now. I left the image of LL Cool Jew trying to hug me/put me into a sleeper hold to give you some perspective concerning Caesar's massive size:
And I cropped most of myself out of this picture because it's the worst image of me ever captured on film. However, I left my scrub-clad ass in it again for scale, to show that Caesar comes up to my waist. He is a big fucking boy:
And a really good boy. In fact, he's the best dog in the world, and I'm so lucky that he chose me as his human. Happy birthday, Pizza Pony! Just for him, I'm going to stop at the slice shop next to the football bar I go to and get Caese a big slice of pepperoni and black olive 'zza. It's not the Clover Leaf, but I'm sure it will be a welcomed birthday gift nonetheless. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for a brisk game of birthday stick-chasing in the park.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, doggity style
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
You've traumatized my dog. Thanks a lot, Weather.com.
Caesar has been on edge lately. I haven't been able to figure out why, because he's participated in an excess of stick chasing in the past couple days, and that is typically the Caesar equivalent of what eating a really rare steak, having an orgasm, and watching Total Recall represents for me. A near-perfect day, in other words. However, he's been acting really nervous and skittish, giving me a lot of pointed looks and such to communicate his state of perturbation. Caesar delivers really piercing, emotive, you-should-feel-guilty looks when he's upset, and I consequently scramble to correct whatever dog issues he's having, because that's what you do when you are blessed with ownership of the best dog in the universe.
Granted, he could just be mad at me because I went out on Saturday night, and then I went out for the past two evenings. Last night I came home drunk on lychee martinis and tried to placate him with the remains of the lamb cone pita sandwich I bought at Bereket before hopping into the cab home, and while he ate said Mediterranean delight, he was not pleased that I'd been out and about until the wee hours. Therefore, when he gave me dog attitude tonight (grousing in doggity half-barks, refusing to sit in the elevator, and general passive-aggressive, standoffish behavior), I attributed it to the usual you're-an-absent-mother issues and resolved to make up for it with some hot extra fetch action at the park tomorrow morning.
However, I suddenly realized what the problem was. My computer is hooked up to speakers that were inadvertantly cranked up on account of my listening to Yung Joc while preparing for my evening out. While I did turn off the Yung Joc before departing, I neglected to turn off the speakers. There is a severe weather warning for the greater New York metropolitan area, and therefore the fucking Weather.com thermometer I installed in my Windows toolbar kept making thunderclap alarm sounds, to alert me of impending thunderstorms and possibility of flash floods. Since my speakers were cranked, it had apparently been thundering loudly at 5 minute intervals ALL NIGHT LONG.
Caesar hasn't been mad at me for being gone. He's mad at me for leaving him alone for hours tormented by sounds that he's found utterly terrifying since he was detached from the communal placenta he shared with his ten littermates. I feel terrible. I've permanently damaged my dog at the deepest psychological level. I wouldn't be surprised if he parleys his above average dog intelligence into the sociopathic behavior of the profoundly disturbed. If I find out that Caesar has been secretly killing random old women and making fishnet stockings with their varicose veins, I'll only have myself to blame for my negligence. Well, myself, and weather.com, because what the fuck? If there's thunder, I'll hear it in the real world, and not from my fucking Windows toolbar. Come up with a better "severe weather" alert sound! Please...for the sake of my sweet dog!!!
Granted, he could just be mad at me because I went out on Saturday night, and then I went out for the past two evenings. Last night I came home drunk on lychee martinis and tried to placate him with the remains of the lamb cone pita sandwich I bought at Bereket before hopping into the cab home, and while he ate said Mediterranean delight, he was not pleased that I'd been out and about until the wee hours. Therefore, when he gave me dog attitude tonight (grousing in doggity half-barks, refusing to sit in the elevator, and general passive-aggressive, standoffish behavior), I attributed it to the usual you're-an-absent-mother issues and resolved to make up for it with some hot extra fetch action at the park tomorrow morning.
However, I suddenly realized what the problem was. My computer is hooked up to speakers that were inadvertantly cranked up on account of my listening to Yung Joc while preparing for my evening out. While I did turn off the Yung Joc before departing, I neglected to turn off the speakers. There is a severe weather warning for the greater New York metropolitan area, and therefore the fucking Weather.com thermometer I installed in my Windows toolbar kept making thunderclap alarm sounds, to alert me of impending thunderstorms and possibility of flash floods. Since my speakers were cranked, it had apparently been thundering loudly at 5 minute intervals ALL NIGHT LONG.
Caesar hasn't been mad at me for being gone. He's mad at me for leaving him alone for hours tormented by sounds that he's found utterly terrifying since he was detached from the communal placenta he shared with his ten littermates. I feel terrible. I've permanently damaged my dog at the deepest psychological level. I wouldn't be surprised if he parleys his above average dog intelligence into the sociopathic behavior of the profoundly disturbed. If I find out that Caesar has been secretly killing random old women and making fishnet stockings with their varicose veins, I'll only have myself to blame for my negligence. Well, myself, and weather.com, because what the fuck? If there's thunder, I'll hear it in the real world, and not from my fucking Windows toolbar. Come up with a better "severe weather" alert sound! Please...for the sake of my sweet dog!!!
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, doggity style, grad school bullshit, NYC, Razzification
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